


Another Set of Aftershocks (Peter Hale was not made for Martyrdom)

by Winterlynne_Norvic



Series: Insecurities [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Breaking Up & Making Up, End of the World, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, Good Peter Hale, Insecure Peter Hale, Multi, Panic Attacks, Pre-Apocalypse, Start of the Apocalypse, Strong Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterlynne_Norvic/pseuds/Winterlynne_Norvic
Summary: “Stiles.” And the voice is closer. So much more so than before. Stiles shakes her head, she doesn’t want to open her eyes and see that it’s not real. That the voice is still as far away as she’d been wishing it hadn’t.“Stiles.” The voice coaxes. His voice.She shakes her head again. “Promise me you’re real.”His breath teases her skin with his warmth when he says “I promise you, sweetheart. I’m real.” and gently cups her face between his hands. It’s so familiar, the way he holds her, the way each finger pushes down when he counts it’s number, from one all the way to ten, and only ten.———Or, the world is ending and as long as Peter can get to Stiles, he knows they can survive it together.———Can be read as a Stand-alone but it’s also sort of an unofficial sequel to Creeper Cuddles (And the Insecurities of One Stiles Stilinski)
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Insecurities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145594
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	Another Set of Aftershocks (Peter Hale was not made for Martyrdom)

**Author's Note:**

> For enhanced reading experience, listen to If the World was Ending by JP Saxe and Julia Michaels because it was totally the inspiration for this fic and I also just really love that song.

Her hands weren’t retaining warmth even shoved under her knees while she was curled up into a ball with her legs pulled up to her chest. Perhaps she shouldn’t have chosen her small kitchen to have a panic attack in. Not that she really chose, just that she hadn’t moved when it started. Sitting with her back against the cupboards she imagined she could feel the cold wood under her butt even though she wore her softest track pants and had sat on the fluffy floor mat that she’d bought so her feet wouldn’t ache from taking the seventy years that she did to do the dishes. 

It shouldn’t take her so much time, because living alone meant less dishes, but it also meant no one to pull her from her head when her thoughts became too loud, and no one to pull the pain for when her crowded mind caused accidents ala-Stiles Stilinski style. 

Her fingers clenched and this time she could actually somewhat feel how sore they were from all the nervous wringing after having practically gone white from the death grip she had on herself. Unlocking them wasn’t an option. Stiles didn’t want to feel the pain from the cramps they’d get more than she wanted to bury her fingers into the pale blue yarn under her and tug on that instead. Better than tugging on her hair at least, her usual go to in stressful situations.

Stiles tries to avoid thinking about feeling the first earthquake only hours before that shook her apartment until things fell off the walls and shelves to break when they met with the floor. 

She tries and fails. 

She thinks about the quake happening while she’d been all snug under a blanket on her couch watching reruns of old Scooby Doo episodes. She thinks about lunging for the remote once the shock had worn off and she’d escaped the tangle of limbs and blanket after her initial flailing off the couch in surprise. She thinks about holding that remote and changing the channel to the news which had already been broadcasting live footage of cities across the world crumbling. Witnessing as anywhere with tectonic plates running beneath the surface opened up and brought down everything on the surface. The fault lines took the devastating brunt while surrounding areas were better off. Barely. 

The lady on screen reported what sensors and early warnings systems had detected, saying the plates had seemingly shifted all at once. Like something had hit the globe and put it just a little off balance, enough to cause the world to act like a bird with ruffled feathers that needed to stretch its wings and reshuffle its outer layer before settling down again.

The lady keeps saying things that Stiles doesn’t hear after a while.

She thinks about so many things as she waits through another set of aftershocks holding herself on her kitchen floor so far away from everyone who she wants most at that moment instead of dwelling on the imminent. 

Tears gather in her eyes, burning as she presses them closed and remembers a time when soft breathing and the faintest sound of music from headphones never disconnected accompanied the feeling of safety and strong arms around her; touching her and holding her and being  _ hers. _

Her grip tightens on her hands. So far away from—

“Stiles!”

No, that’s not right, her forehead creases in confusion. She’s right here, she tells herself, and then realizes that’s not her voice, although it’s almost as familiar as.

“Stiles.” And the voice is closer. So much more so than before. Stiles shakes her head, she doesn’t want to open her eyes and see that it’s not real. That the voice is still as far away as she’d been wishing it hadn’t.

“Stiles.” The voice coaxes.  _ His  _ voice.

She shakes her head again. “Promise me you’re real.” 

His breath teases her skin with his warmth when he says “I promise you, sweetheart. I’m real.” and gently cups her face between his hands. It’s so familiar, the way he holds her, the way each finger pushes down when he counts it’s number, from one all the way to ten, and only ten. 

“All accounted for.” He says.

“Again.” She demands, pleading too. 

She pictures him nodding when he says “Of course.” and removes his hands from her face to take hold of her elbows. She only protests a little at the change in position, not sure if she wants to argue with a maybe hallucination.

“Your hands if I may, Gorgeous?”

After her mom died, Stiles never quite believed in God again. She stopped attending church without her mom there to dress her up in her Sunday best, which at that point had been mainly girly dresses that she’d chosen to donate so she wouldn’t even have the option of wearing them. It hurt too much to be reminded of her mom, and her dad didn’t have time to take her anyway, overworked as he’d also chosen to be.

After Scott had been bitten Stiles lost faith entirely, she didn’t believe in God but she could reconsider if this weren’t all just happening inside her mind. She prayed to a God she’d lost faith in that it wasn’t.

“Flattererwolf.” Stiles managed to reply

“It’s not flattery if it’s true, clever girl.” He returns easily.

Stiles' insecurities rear their horrid heads to disagree so she mentally stomps on them until she’s satisfied. She is clever, she knows that and says so to herself and her doubts, and maybe she doesn’t see herself the way he does, but he doesn’t lie to her, so she knows she must be gorgeous too. 

“Stiles.” He prompts. 

Reluctantly, Stiles forces her hands to unclasp. He takes them with care, begins unfurling each finger and spreading them out. She barely has time to whimper at the stabbing of pins and needles, blood rushing away the numbness before black begins to run up his veins and disappears under the short sleeve of his v-neck. If she’d open her beautiful whiskey eyes, he knew she’d recognize it as one of the many she got him for Christmas. Only because half his wardrobe had been lost to her stolen collection of his clothes, he hadn’t minded. 

He minded even less when he noticed the shirt she currently wore was nearly identical. Also stolen from him of course. Although his scent no longer clung to it, on bad nights she pretended it did. Sometimes, it even worked. The minuscule comfort it provided in place of him could sometimes tide the loneliness. 

Not often, but just enough.

“Ready? I want you to count for me.”

He presses a kiss to the pad of her right pinky.

“Count.” He says.

She counts. One.

He does her ring finger. Two. He does the next. Three. He presses a kiss to each finger tip, she says a number between each. Her face is wet by the last, cheeks damp and splotchy red for sure. 

She has ten fingers.

“You’re not dreaming, I’m real, and I’m here. Please look at me, darling?”

Stiles braces herself. She opens her eyes.

“Peter!” It comes out as a sob and Stiles doesn’t give a fuck. He’s here.  _ He's _ here. He’s  _ here _ .

“How the fuck are you here?” She wonders aloud in a gasping breath. “They shut down all air travel, you couldn’t have possibly come over multiple state lines and gotten here in a few hours.”

And it shouldn’t matter because  _ he’s here _ and somehow an earthquake hadn’t managed to stop Peter from accomplishing that, but she’s Stiles first and sadness second. Curiosity trumps things like tearful reunions.

“I was in traffic, so it took me a while, but I was already here.” 

Stiles cocked her head with narrowed eyes, a mimicked wolfy habit from him and Derek that she never managed to unlearn. 

“On my way here, specifically.” He clarified at the bodily request.

“It’s been a year now, Peter.” She doesn’t say it cruelly, really she just whispers, but she can see him pull in on himself a little, like he’s been yelled at instead. “Why are you here?” She asks. She needs to know. She can’t take another heartbreak, even with the future so uncertain but almost certainly short.

“I realized something. And I’ve been realizing it for so long that I finally got in my car and started driving. Days ago. This morning I reached the city limits just as the first quake hit and—”

“They’re predicting more.” She cuts in. She remembers hearing that before stumbling her way out of the living room and into the kitchen to subsequently break down. Peter nods. Taps his ears. 

“I heard the news. Radios, televisions, panic.” His eyes go distant briefly. “I smelt the fear.”

“Peter.” Stiles whines. She can’t stand seeing him so haunted.

He turns back to her and smiles sadly. “I want to have kids with you.”

Where they were still linked Stiles fixed her hands to his, holding him as they'd held her. “I thought—Peter, what?” She asks brokenly.

She wants kids with him. 

“I thought you weren’t down for forever, and Peter, kids are pretty forever.”

She wants forever too.

“I thought we weren’t meant for each other.”

Tears steadily drip down Stiles’ face and she wonders if he should have used ‘wanted’. They weren’t dead yet but soon they both might be. Soon, though it’s possible only one of them would die and although they spent what now felt like ages apart, Stiles couldn’t imagine living in a world without her wolf. 

“Why?” She didn’t understand how he could have ever—

“You deserve more than me. I wanted you to have more than I thought I could give.” 

Of course, Stiles laughed wetly, insecurities. They’d dealt with hers while leaving his to fester and grow. 

Still, she’d never pegged Peter for a martyr. 

“I told you I could never do better, you’re the only murderous bastard for me, idiot.” She wonders a bit nonsensically if at some point she could become dehydrated with all this water leaking from her face as he brought up their joined palms, she loosened her grip so his thumbs brush away her tears. She let her hold slip to his wrists as his hands slid back down to cup her face. 

Stiles felt cherished in his hands, she always had when his fingers touched her body and combed through her hair. So loved when the pads of his fingers and palms of his hands learned and brushed and felt every inch of her skin. 

Her watery eyes met his, still startlingly blue and just as intense as the day he’d offered her more than she could even fathom at the time.

“You’re everything to me. I only ever wanted as much as you could give me, Peter,” Stiles said thinking about that day, and every day after. She thought about her dreams and a bite that adorned her wrist only in them. “I definitely shouldn’t have run away because you obviously weren’t thinking clearly, but you shouldn’t have let me run either.”

“I know, Sweetheart. We were both stupid.”

“So stupid,” Stiles agreed. “When your mate runs you’re supposed to give chase.” 

Peter startled a little, Stiles almost laughed but she didn’t know if the sound that might’ve escaped would have been a laugh or another sob. 

“I’m so sorry, darling.” He murmured. He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness because he’d never need it from Stiles and she’d never ask it of him either. His brilliant, ruthless, mischievous mate. Peter adored her.

“I am too, my sillywolf. We wasted so much time.”

Peter only wished he’d been brave enough to chase sooner. Of all the times he decided to not be selfish, he couldn’t have possibly picked a worse one.

“Yes,” he said, because they had. “But then again I think we both, in our own ways, needed time. Neither of us quite lived the life we thought we would after all.”

It’s hard to lose as much as they had so young.

“Fuck time, fuck life. Fuck fate and whoever else decided to pull this bullshit, we didn’t survive the shithole that is Beacon Hills to die in a New York City apartment as the world shakes apart.” Stiles fumed.

Peter’s shoulders shook as he chuckled. Stiles tried to savour the sound, tried not to break down as the world ended around them.

She pressed her face to his chest and tried to absorb his warmth. She missed it, she missed him. She missed waking up beside the (wolf) man she loved, and forehead kisses, handholding, making out and bickering, plotting with him, studying old books side by side. She missed being in his space, missed him inside her, missed the good and the bad and making fun of his poshwolf taste.

She held him, and he held her, grateful she didn’t have to miss her wolf anymore.

“There’s always Canada.” Peter mused after a while. “Or Alaska. It would be cold and short notice but we could try, we could have a chance, Stiles. I could bite you properly, too.”

“Bite and claim.” Stiles hummed, watching her wolf shiver at the near-promise of everything he ached for and considering it, although there wasn’t much to consider, they both knew. “If anyone could survive the apocalypse I suppose it would be us.”

“My nephew too,” Peter added. “Derek would survive, I’m sure. By sheer accident too. The boy is like a cockroach. No matter how many times you try to kill it, it just won’t die.” 

His mate threw her head back and laughed brightly. Peter could see the hope swirl to life in her eyes, the determination to survive hardening. She shook off the last remnants of her panic attack; for now her period for sulking and self pity was over. They had issues to work over and through still, it seemed like they always would. Nothing is resolved so easily, and when the time came they would deal with it. Now however, it was time to get their shit together and go. If and when another quake hit they really wouldn’t want to be in New York to get caught in the streets as the buildings came down, their bases crumbled and the earth opening up to swallow them whole.

“I don’t want to say goodbye.” She told him fiercely.  _ Not again. _

Peter’s eyes flared his stunning beta blue in response. Stiles refused to say goodbye every battle she’d ever had with Peter. This new apocalypse would just be another battle, albeit extreme. Her refusal to say goodbye was synonymous with her demanding he not die. She couldn’t lose another person, she couldn’t say goodbye to another person she loved.

“We won’t.” Peter swore.  _ Never again. _

“Good, now let’s get the fuck out of here and see if we don’t manage to find a cockroach along the way.”

Peter sighed, long suffering. “I’m sure Derek will find us on his own, dear.”

“If he doesn’t need rescuing first.” Stiles muttered. She’d saved him enough times to be a good part of the reason why he’s still alive. 

“If he doesn’t need rescuing.” Peter amended. Knowing his luck (his own and his nephew’s), he’d probably need rescuing.

It's less than twenty minutes and a wardrobe change later when they finish grabbing all the necessities they could carry from Stiles’s apartment and were ready to leave, with Stiles surveying her place, her home in the big city that never sleeps—much like her. She’d found it fitting at the time and now she knew it probably would be standing by the end of the week, that everything she left behind would be gone and buried and even knowing that, she didn’t particularly mind. A place was a place, she could always make a new home, and this time she resolved, it would be a den she could share with her mate. So before Stiles crossed the threshold to her place one last time she did whisper  _ adiós _ , putting good use to a word even the Spanish classes in highschool couldn’t make her forget. 

“I’m good.” Stiles whispered when she saw her wolf staring at her.

Peter didn’t reply, only grabbed her hand and pulled her into a kiss she’d been dreaming about having her entire life and had yearned for most after they had almost fucked this up. 

“I love you.” He promised her when they pulled apart.

“I love you.” She promised back. 

Stiles pressed her forehead to Peter’s in the entryway grasping his forearms and sharing the air between them.

One count. Two counts. Three counts. Four counts.

“Let’s go.”

With a resounding thud of finality, the door shut behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, this ended up way longer than I thought it would be and I accidentally ended up linking it to my other fic so now it’s a series that I’d totally be willing to continue! (With Derek actually appearing!!) if y’all are interested drop a comment and please leave a kudos if you enjoyed!!


End file.
